Ed Grisamore

I don’t recall ever being part of a recall.

I am part of one now, though.

I am one of the 2.3 million Toyota owners in the U.S. — and 4.2 million worldwide – who will have to haul my 2008 Avalon back to the dealership for a recall.

They claim the gas pedals can get stuck. This is not good.

First, let me say we are a Toyota family. I believe in them. We own three of them. I have been driving them for 10 years.  I will continue to drive them until I get old enough to join the AARP and drive a Buick. (Just kidding.)

Why? Dependability. When you go to crank them, they start. I’ve never had a Toyota leave me on the side of the road.

Longevity, too. They are built to last. It has been my experience that if you take care of them, they will take care of you. I put 220,000 miles on a Sienna before I started driving the Avalon. A friend of mine now owns that Sienna, and it’s still going strong. My oldest son has more than 200,000 miles on his 1996 4-Runner, and my wife has more than 140,000 on her 1999 Camry.

I once had a reader take me to task for driving a Toyota. She said it was un-American to drive a foreign car. A few days after she wrote me, there was an article in The Wall Street Journal that compared a Sienna to a Ford Thunderbird. The Sienna (which was built in Georgetown, Ky.) had about 90 percent American-made parts. The Ford, on the other hand, had somewhere around 60 percent of its components made in the U.S.

I’ve been looking for that lady ever since.

I did have to take the Avalon in this past fall to have the floor mats bolted down. It seems the mats on the driver’s side were prone to sliding up under the gas pedal. That happened to me a few times, but it was more annoying than anything else. And it wasn’t part of a full-scale recall like this.

Now there is a chance the gas pedal itself may get stuck. This will make me worry every time I get into the car until I can get it fixed.

A man’s life cannot be measured by celebrity. His worth cannot be counted by his riches. His countenance is not a reflection of the spotlight he attracts.

Durwood “Mr. Doubletalk” Fincher has had a memorable year. He has made thousands of people laugh from Martha’s Vineyard to Reno to Lacrosse, Wisconsin to Naples, Fla., and back again.

His book, “Once You Step in Elephant Manure, You’re in the Circus Forever,’’ has been a validation of this amazing life we have come to know as “Durworld,’’ where I can honestly say there is never a dull moment.

He sat next to actor Woody Harrelson on a flight from Atlanta to Los Angeles. They talked – and doubletalked – the whole 1,944 miles. He dazzled and entertained one of the best players in baseball – David “Big Papi” Ortiz – near the dugout on a summer afternoon at Turner Field before the Boston Red Sox played the Atlanta Braves. Big Papi never laughed louder or grinned wider than he did after he was doubletalked by the man (watch here on YouTube) who was discovered by Allen Funt of Candid Camera.

Durwood doubletalked golfer Lee Trevino, too, and the entire Georgia Southern football team. He unleashed his verbal whiplash on the unsuspecting CEOs, waitresses, college kids, telemarketers and countless others. It’s what he does for a living – and gets paid for it. If laughter is the best medicine, he has saved a lot of lives. If there were a cabinet position for humor, Durwood would be appointed Minister of Fun.

Yet,  if you asked Durwood to pull out one of those big, yellow markers and highlight the year, it would have nothing to do with flying first class or staying in the Ritz Carlton.

There were so many other things that mattered more. Much more.

For sure, the book has reunited him with old friends and introduced him to new ones. He has embraced each moment on the receiving end of countless handshakes and hugs. He has rekindled friendships with former students, teachers, co-workers and neighbors. When we had a book signing at Harpin’s restaurant in Payne City back in January, on the same ground where the cotton mill once stood, many of his old acquaintances from the village showed up, and the line was out the door on a glorious afternoon.

In March, Durwood was honored as the grand marshal of the Cherry Blossom Festival parade and was given a key to the city by Mayor Robert Reichert. It was one of the most special of special days. The linthead from the village, who was never expected to amount to much, rode in a red convertible down Cherry Street, where people were calling his name. Ahead of him was the color guard, and he watched as folks placed their hands over their hearts as it marched by.

He still wears that key to the city around his neck, by the way, the biggest bling ever to meet your eyeballs. He jokes that it opens the door to the Nu-Way. That key has traveled around the country and back, and people always ask him about it. So there is no finer ambassador for Macon, Ga., than Durwood Fincher.

In May, he stood before the Central Georgia Boy Scout Council, at a benefit at The Armory Ballroom. . His late father used to work in that building many years ago.  The Boy Scouts also presented him with an Eagle Scout badge to replace the one he had earned in Payne City in the early 1960s but had lost (or simply misplaced) like so many other things in his organizationally-challenged life.

And, finally, Durwood was chosen to light the Advent candle at his church, Peachtree Presbyterian in Atlanta, during the Sunday morning worship service on Dec. 6.

It was a huge honor for him. Of course, the church staff had to remind him he had no “speaking” part in this service, not an easy restraint for Mr. Doubletalk.

But he sure was talking to himself as he reached to light the candle.

His inner conversation went something like this:

This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.

And he did. These are the things that matter most.

(Excerpted from a column I wrote in September 2000)

If it’s only a game played on 57,600 square feet of green grass, then why does it make grown men cry?

Why do young women plan their wedding dates around football Saturdays, so not to interfere with a home game in Athens or Tuscaloosa, Ala.?

Why do perfectly normal people bark like dogs, paint their faces, leave season tickets in their wills and make some of the largest emotional investments of their lives in 19-year-old football players who can run like the wind?

There are husbands who can never remember their wives’ dress sizes, yet they can recite the depth chart at tailback for Florida State.

There are children walking around with names like Buck and Bear. They are products of families who keep playbooks on the coffee table.

That’s football in the South. That’s just the way it is.

If you haven’t noticed, the season has arrived like a tight spiral. The scent of pigskin is in the air.

We have goalposts in our cross hairs. Our fingerprints cover anything that has to do with the teams we follow. For the next four months, the lives of every Tom, Dick and Herschel will revolve around passes and punts the same way the planets orbit the sun.

Football is much more than the sum of its parts.

It’s almost like a religion.

The definition of an atheist in Alabama? Somebody who doesn’t believe in Bear Bryant. Football in the afterlife? A Florida fan once died in the middle of a long losing streak against Georgia. When the Gators finally prevailed, his buddies took the next morning’s sports section from the Florida Times-Union and laid it face down on top of his grave. So he could read it.

Pigskin passion. It’s contagious. It’s outrageous.

On football Friday nights in hotbeds like Thomasville, Warner Robins and Lincolnton, the town’s center of gravity is the local high school stadium. People not only talk about the game all week — in the grocery stores and at the bank — they are obsessed with it. In many communities, football season is the most significant social institution.

Why? Because it often can do what churches and government agencies cannot. It can rally the masses and bring together people from different walks of life.

On Saturdays like this one, the date has been circled on the calendar for months. Palms have been sweating for weeks. Game faces have been saturated with cautious optimism for days. In college towns, the sabbath is often observed on Saturdays, too.

At the University of Georgia Saturday, a red sea will arrive beneath shade trees across the campus. Fans will throw toy footballs over parking lots and dormitory lawns. Many will congregate on tailgates and huddle behind Winnebagos with buckets of cold fried chicken.

A cemetery plot inside Sanford Stadium is reserved for dearly departed bulldog mascots and is considered sacred ground. And absolutely nothing offends Bulldog fans more than when opposing teams prune the hallowed hedges that surround the field.

However, the infatuation with football in Georgia is not without rival. A power grid of devotion extends across Dixie. It reaches beyond two teams buckling chin straps and going toe-to-toe for supremacy.

At Clemson, the players rub “Howard’s Rock,” brought from California’s Death Valley in the 1960s, for good luck before every game. The rabid fans love it.

In Statesboro, the Georgia Southern faithful believe in the magical waters of “Beautiful Eagle Creek,” a drainage ditch near the practice fields.

In Tallahassee, mock headstones have been placed in a nearby “graveyard” for each opponent the FSU Seminoles bury on the field at Doak Campbell Stadium.

The affinity for Southern-fried football speaks volumes. It can split family loyalties and start backyard feuds.

It can inspire books — “Clean Old Fashioned Hate” is the classic that chronicles the Georgia-Georgia Tech rivalry. It also can provoke jokes. (What does a Georgia graduate say to a Tech graduate? Do you want fries with that?)

In baseball, you win some, you lose some and some days you get rained out.

But in football, every game is magnified. Every game is meaningful. The crescendo builds each week. It can take months, and even years, to shake a loss. Victories often are savored for a lifetime.

It is more than just a game. Quite simply, it is a part of who we are.

It even makes grown men cry.

Things I’ve gotta do today:

Get up at 5:22 a.m. and go for my morning walk 2.34 miles around the neighborhood at 6:17 a.m.

Kiss the wife.

Coffee.

Step over the dogs in the kitchen while cooking breakfast.

Put my writing shoes on.

Be a friend to my fellow man.

Learn how to hit a curve ball.

Practice my doubletalk.

Fall into a book.

‘Mater sandwich.

Go see my mama.

Watch the Braves whup the Mets.

Love my children.

Keep the faith.

On most mornings, I get to the office early. I get a good parking spot. I usually am the first to arrive in the newsroom, so I turn on the lights. (I refuse to make the coffee, though.)

I’ve grown accustomed to homeless people walking past our building. They come up from the river, or from down at the park. I usually don’t feel threatened by them. Some have asked for money. I have told several where they can find shelter and a hot meal.

A few weeks ago, I arrived at the office about 7:30. There wasn’t a lot of activity at the corner of Broadway and Riverside, except for a homeless man  moving slowly down the sidewalk. I paused for a moment to see which way he was headed. If I’m not in the mood to deal with them, I sometimes wait until they disappear around the corner before I get out of my car.

But this man stopped to look at the morning’s headlines in the newspaper rack at the front of the building. He spent a long time there, his eyes scanning everything. It was obvious he wasn’t going to spend 50 cents to buy the paper. I doubt he had two quarters in his pocket, anyway.

So, he stood frozen, reading the upper half of the front page. That was all he was going to get — for free.

In newspaper language, we call that “above the fold.” It’s where the emphasis on your paper is going to be every day. It’s your front door. You’ve got to invite the readers inside.

I thought for a long time what that man was missing — the weather report, the baseball box scores, the comic page, garden tips, Dear Abby and the crossword puzzle. He wouldn’t get to read the classified ads or read his horoscope. Hey, he even missed out reading my column!

But there are a lot of others out there, too, who are just like this guy. And they’re not homeless. They don’t take the time to read a newspaper. Learn about their community. Make the world a better place.

It reminds me of a quote by Mark Twain: “The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who can’t read them.”

And that’s my sermon for today.

There is a man in our building who arrives at work every morning at about the same time. I know when he gets there before I ever see him.

No, I don’t watch out my office window for him to pull into the parking lot. (I don’t even know what kind of car he drives.)

But I hear definitely hear him before I see him.

Dave is a whistler, you see.

I don’t just hear Dave in the morning. I hear him at different times during the day. It floats down the hall. It bends around doorways and bounces off walls.

I hear that whistling as he comes up the stairwell. It’s a very happy whistle. I have a theory that whistlers are basically happy people.

You never hear a whistler whistling the blues.  There are no deep, dark melancholy tones from the lips of whistlers.

Birds whistle. It’s a joyful sound.

I guess my earliest memory of whistling was in “Snow White” and “Whistle While You Work.”

Then there was the theme song from “The Andy Griffith Show.”

And, of course, my all-time favorite whistling at the end of Macon’s own Otis Redding singing “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.”

Remember Tom Sawyer? Here is an excerpt from the novel by Mark Twain.

“Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man’s are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time — just as men’s misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises. This new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practice it undisturbed. It consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music — the reader probably remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy. Diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude. He felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet–no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer. ”

I’m convinced we could solve a lot of problems of the world if you would just whistle.

I went on the road the other day and stopped to eat lunch in Cochran.

There’s a little meat-and-two place on 8th Street called Truett’s. It’s a favorite of the locals, and I have enjoyed a few meals there myself.

Truett’s has an old-fashioned  butcher shop and deli on the side of the building. But most folks go there for the home cooking.

I went through the line and helped myself to my Achilles Meal — fried chicken, fried okra, pole beans, cornbread and banana pudding. And sweet tea, of course.

You don’t have to worry about a greasy spoon at Truett’s. The place is so clean you can eat off the floor. I wouldn’t recommend it, but you could.

I first became familiar with Truett’s a few years ago when I wrote a column about the restaurant getting 15 consecutive “100″ perfect scores on its health rating.

That’s very impressive. I’ve written stories about some of those  health inspectors, even gone out with them when they’ve been on their restaurant raids, like a SWAT patrol. Some of those guys will count off points for a crumb on the floor.

When I went back to Truett’s the other day, nothing had changed. There was still a “100″ on the wall. That’s 25 in a row!!!!

Kind of like Joe Dimaggio’s 56-game hitting streak, a record that may never be broken.

I’ve got my writing shoes on, and I am wearing an orange baseball cap.

The label said it’s 100 percent cotton, with nylon lining. It is made by a company called Adams Headwear.

This is what the inside  label says: ADAMS. New York. Paris. Milan.

This is what the other inside label says:  Made in China.

That’s pretty amusing.  Not to mention sad.

I bought the orange cap a few weeks ago. It came in a choice of other colors, such as lime green, deep purple and powder blue. I knew the instant I saw it that was going to be my souvenir from my beach trip.

I didn’t think twice about paying $14 for it.

That’s because on the outside of the cap it says:

PIGGLY WIGGLY  Apalachicola, Fla.

I would be willing to bet you don’t know too many people with a baseball cap from the Piggly Wiggly in Apalachicola. Bet you don’t know many who would be willing to admit they’ve ever even been there, much less pay $14 for it.

But I fell in love with it, right there between between the sunscreen and the watermelons.

There is sentimental value to it. I tell you about it in my next post.